


some will say, "what is lost can never be saved"

by austen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: Just outside of Pataskala, Ohio, Sam starts having another nightmare.





	

Just outside of Pataskala, Ohio, Sam starts having another nightmare.

Dean knows it's a nightmare by the way his brother tenses, his hands automatically clenching into fists at his sides while his body curls up against the fraying leather, making it look like some kind of freaky contortionist act. They've only been driving for eight hours, but Sam's gotten less sleep than that in the past couple of days, and so Dean debates whether to wake him.

Sam starts muttering something in his sleep, repeats it again, but Dean doesn't want to wait until it's loud enough for him to overhear.

He cranks up the radio, counts to five in time with the bass drum, and Sam jerks awake.

*

Three days later, Sam finds an article about unsolved murders in Missouri.

"Check this out." He slides the paper across the table to Dean, who's in the process of slathering his home fries in ketchup.

"The paper says it's random, but look at the way all the victims were murdered." Dean's eyes scan the tiny print until he finds the words.

"Their throats were slit. Look--" Sam's got the journal out now - _Dad's_ journal - flipping through the pages until he finds the page he bookmarked earlier. "Dad was looking into this a couple months back. This thing's been choosing its victims by age, every year for the past three years. And get this: they're all seventeen."

"So whaar yew thinkin'?" Dean asks, his cheeks puffed out with impressive bites of his burger. Sam's face registers mild disgust until he swallows, tries again. "We lookin' at some kind of spirit?"

"That'd be my guess," Sam replies. "Dad's too. His research kept taking him back to this kid who died before the murders started. Apparently, he never made it home from school."

"Don't tell me: he was seventeen," Dean interjects, grinning smugly.

"Uh, yeah," Sam says, scanning down the journal's notes to confirm. "How long d'you think it'll take for us to get to Anderson?"

"If we leave now?" Dean's eyes are already looking out the window, tracking the progress of the sun.

"Tomorrow night."

*

Sam starts drifting long before they cross the border, his head lolling so far forward his chin starts hitting his chest. 

Dean turns down the music this time.

It might be curiosity, it might be something else, but he waits for it, for the words that his brother mumbles into the near-silence: _Jess_ and _no_ and _please_.

Dean grits his teeth, grips the wheel with white, bloodless knuckles, and eases the car over onto the rumble strip.

Sam's eyes open.

*

They check into a motel by three, and the manager behind the counter doesn't bat an eye when they make sure to specify two singles. 

(There was an incident in Arkansas a few weeks back where they got stuck in the honeymoon suite; Dean doesn't like to discuss it.)

*

The school - McDonald High - isn't too hard to find; Anderson's population only chalks up to approximately 1,850, which means that people start to notice multiple murders after, say, the first day.

"Call it a thinning of the herd," Sam jokes, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"What are you, _National Geographic_?" The Impala rumbles into the parking lot, and Dean parks in the spot near the statue of the mascot: a giant bronze mustang rearing up on its hind legs.

"I'm just saying, we should be able to find someone who knows something about this kid, even just a name. Small town like this, everybody knows everybody else's business." Sam quirks both eyebrows in his brother's direction, and Dean just slams the driver's side door in response.

"Let's just get this over with, alright?"

He jams his hands into his pockets. There aren't any good memories associated with high school for Dean, except for the few times he got to feel up those girls in between classes. A thought suddenly pops into Dean's head: no matter where you go, janitor's closets always look the same from the inside.

One side of his mouth twitches into a smirk.

"Hey, you think any of the cheerleaders here are legal?"

The look on Sam's face says it plainly: _don't even think about it_.

*

Back in the motel room, while Sam tosses and turns, Dean makes salt circles around the beds.

He may not be able to protect him from what's in there, but he'll sure as hell protect him from what's out _there_.

*

The missing persons list is understandably small, which means it's easy to find one Jacob Garrett in the first hour of searching through the public library's old papers.

"It say where he's buried?" Dean's leaning back in his chair, two of its wooden legs hovering off the carpet. Sam's bent over a stack of yellowing newspapers and plucks one up from the pile so suddenly that Dean nearly tips over.

"Vandergrift Cemetery. Five miles from here." Sam tries to hide a smirk with one hand while Dean steadies himself in the chair.

"Well," Dean mutters, clapping his hands together, "looks like we've got the ol' salt-and-burn tango on the menu tonight."

*

Dean'll say this: for a small town, Anderson gets incredibly creepy at nighttime. The moon's not out tonight - or if it is, the clouds shroud it from view. ("I _told_ you to bring a flashlight," Sam says, before Dean tosses him a shovel.)

They're standing over the open grave, salt and lighter fluid already sprinkled over the bones. Sam hands him the matches with cold fingers that send a rippling shiver down his spine; he has to stop and remind himself that there's still blood flowing in those hands.

His dad's words echo in his head: _watch out for Sammy, don't let him out of your sight._

He strikes a match, throws the whole pack into the coffin, and watches the light from the flickering flames pass over his brother's face.

*

The sky is pink in the early morning when Sam falls asleep again.

Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him: he's got his fair share of nightmares, too.

Only thing is, all of his keep happening while he's still awake.


End file.
